The Death of Dear John Watson
by DYLANFLOWER
Summary: John has a brain tumour and his days are numbered. 'I knew today would be the day. So when my phone rang, despite the dread that hung over me like a fog, I was ready for it. "Sherlock," Mary's voice wavered, "This is it."' Sherlock POV - MaryxJohn but with plenty of friendship-fluff between John and Sherlock - Also some Kid!Lock - Any advice welcome, I'm new here :)
1. Oneshot

**This is just a oneshot I was thinking of writing. It's about John Watson and Sherlock Holmes, based on the BBC series (which I do not own. All rights go to the creators of Sherlock). John and Sherlock have grown old together and John is on his death bed.**

I was sat in my chair when it happened. Staring at John's empty chair across from me, the fabric worn and faded, I wondered why human life always had to end. I had escaped death so many times, much like the God I made myself out to be. But John had always enchanted me with his simple humanity. So there was never any chance that he would out-smart death like I planned to.

John is now 72, living at his and Mary's house, bed-bound for about a month now. He has a brain tumor, and his days are numbered.

When I first heard the news, I spent an entire year trying to find a cure. The whole nation got their hopes up, knowing that nothing could out-smart Sherlock Holmes. I didn't solve any crimes - John wasn't there to prompt me out of my obsession. Mrs Hudson died about twenty years ago, leaving me in charge of Baker Street, alone, with no one to remind me of the passing time.

Until Mary came round and ordered me out of my state, that is. I was sat on the floor, surrounded by books by all the greatest scientists, explaining everything they knew about the deadly disease. I had been on the verge of tearing chunks out of my hair, I hadn't washed or dressed for about a week, and the house was a tip. You and I both know that I don't cope well with stress, and even the drugs weren't helping.

Without John, I truly am a hopeless human being.

Anyway, after a year of researching to no end, I admitted defeat. The whole world grew afraid that a cure would never be found - if Sherlock Holmes couldn't find a cure, who could?

Instead of driving myself out of my mind, I visited John every day, reminiscing about the times before our bones began to creak, our hair to grey, and our skin to wrinkle. I reread every post from his blog and we did actually have a laugh - despite his complaints that I should return Lestrade's calls.

So back to the chair.

Last night, John started having hallucinations, and I had to leave him with Mary. I think he was seeing the war again; he was shouting out commands, looking frantically for a medical kit that wasn't there. He fell over, too, and nearly broke his hip.

It was the saddest thing I'd ever seen. The brave Dr John Watson, completely out of control and out of reach.

I knew today would be the day. So when my phone rang, despite the dread that hung over me like a fog, I was ready for it.

"Sherlock," Mary's voice wavered, "This is it."

I slammed the door to the black cab shut, gripped my walking stick, and hobbled to his door. I was struck with the memory of the first time I'd met John. He'd had that psychosomatic limp that I'd cured him of. I remembered telling him how I knew all about him in the cab, his skin still tanned from Afghanistan's mark. The memory was so clear, so detailed, it felt like a vision.

And then I reached the door.

My breath shook as I inhaled. This would be my last visit to John's house._ Keep it together, Sherlock_.

I knocked the door, and Mary came in seconds.

Her face was puffy and her face pale, so I assumed John was asleep again - she never cried in front of him.

"Hurry." She whispered.

I walked through to what used to be the study, and was now John's downstairs bedroom. A nurse was checking his pulse with a weary face. Probably the last time she'd visit this house.

And John was lying there, asleep, exactly as he'd been for the last month. But this was different. His sleep felt deeper, his face more relaxed, his skin grey and his breaths shallow.

My God.

"_John_." I mouthed.

Mary's hand at my back pushed me forward, and as the nurse left we both sat either side of his bed.

"This is it, isn't it?" I looked up at Mary. I'd never felt unsure or afraid of my deductions before.

"Yes." She nodded, another tear breaking free from her glassy eyes.

I could feel the grief waiting for me, a tsunami tide of feelings and emotions like I'd never felt before. I pushed it back.

And then John's eyes fluttered as he woke up. He opened his mouth, which was our sign that he wanted water, so I brought the cup to his lips while Mary used the remote to lift his bed up a bit.

After he'd drank, I put the cup back on the bedside table.

"Good morning, John." I greeted him.

"Sherlock," He breathed. Then he coughed, and regained some of his voice, "Sherlock, I know this is it. I know I'm gonna go." He didn't sound any different to how he did all those years ago, and if I closed my eyes I could almost imagine that the last thirty years hadn't happened – that he was still living with me in Baker Street before my 'death'. But this was real, so I kept my eyes open and faced it like John would have if our roles were reversed. I tried to become a soldier for John.

I looked down, swallowing hard. I can't.

"So I just want you to know that you're the best thing that's ever happened to me. You gave me a life that I was destined to live, you annoyed the hell out of me in all the right ways over all these years, and I love you, mate."

Somehow, he wasn't crying; didn't seem at all fazed, as though the situation was unknown to him. But he looked me in the eyes, and I saw his soul in them, lit up like a bonfire. Burning through me.

"I don't know what to say." I smiled, remembering that time I had been about to get on the plane, before Moriarty had returned. And that made me remember.

"Where's Shirley?" I asked. John and Mary's only child, a daughter, who they'd named after me. When he first told me, I'd thought he was joking. But then I'd been the proudest Godfather ever.

"She's on her way. Should be here in about an hour." Mary answered. I looked to her, and we both realised she wasn't going to make it on time.

"Sherlock, I want to talk to Mary, if that's okay."

I left the room, my bloody bones creaking as usual.

Shutting the door behind me, I saw the nurse was just leaving. Before she left, she gave me a look of sympathy. It was that that set me off.

This wasn't supposed to happen. Me and John, we're invincible - it's not supposed to end like this.

It's not supposed to end.

"Sherlock!" Mary called me in.

John's eyelids were drooping, his skin somehow more pale. His breaths were getting slower and farther apart, and my bastard brain wouldn't stop analysing all the signs of death.

"Stop it stop it stop it!" I demanded myself.

Mary looked at me, worried, but a knowing smile spread across John's face, thought he kept his eyes shut. "Don't worry, Sherlock, it's just death. That's what people do. We die."

I gripped his wrinkled hand in my veiny, aged ones, and blinked back the tears that had finally come.

"John," I whispered.

"I'll say hi to Mrs Hudson for you. See you soon."

And then he slowly breathed out, and didn't breathe back in. The silence settled around us like a blanket, smothering me in the knowledge that it had happened.

Sherlock Holmes and Dr Watson were no longer together.

Sherlock Holmes was alone again for the first time in forty years.

"_John_!" Mary screamed, shaking his shoulders and trying to bring him back.

But I just smiled, remembering the life we'd had, and thought he'd had the peaceful death he deserved.

And then a single sob escaped my throat as I began to cry.

Rest in peace, Doctor Watson.

**So I hope that wasn't too sad. I don't know if I should carry on with this, make it a bit longer? Let me know And thanks for reading!**


	2. Chapter 1

The Death of Dear John Watson

**So, I thought it would be a good idea to make the oneshot into a story? I don't know what you guys think about this, but no one suggested anything so I thought I'd just go with it. Thanks for reading so far.**

**Currently listening to: Oblivion by Bastille.**

**All rights go to the makers etc... of BBC Sherlock, I own nothing.**

"Shut up, Anderson." I commanded as I slammed the door in his face. Honestly, was there a brain in that thick skull of his? He may as well be a single-celled organism; he's only capable of just enough thought to keep him alive anyway.

I approached the body lying on the ground. Hair is short, recently trimmed - there are left over flecks of hair on the collar of his work shirt. So he got his hair cut after work. Next I turned to his hands. Not married, hasn't removed the ring as the skin is soft around his ring finger. Shoes, must check the shoes. Ah, from Clarks, recently bought. What about the shirt? Yes, just as I suspected, newly bought. Slipping my hand into his blazer pocket, I withdrew a receipt. Casa Di Fiori, a nice restaurant, very expensive. More desperate than I thought.

I stood up to face Lestrade. His hands were absent-mindedly brushing his thighs, and a small dent formed in between his eyebrows. His eyes flitted around the room. Clearly, he was as nervous as I was about John's—

No.

"It was his date, the one who called us." I said, picking up my Belstaff coat from the hotel sofa.

"Really? She seemed so nice, so upset... Are you sure?" He asked, but there wasn't enough emotion in his voice to tell me he really cared. He was just saying what he expected himself to say.

I sighed in exasperation, but decided to explain it to him anyway. I needed distracting.

"He's recently brushed up on his appearance; new work shirt, new shoes and a haircut, but done too short, so he tried a new hairdresser, possibly for a new look but I would need older pictures of him to be sure. He's not married – hasn't ever been, and by thirty years of age I think it's safe to say he's getting desperate. So, what do you do when you want a wife? You brush up on your appearance and go on a date, but this wasn't just any date, no, he went to Casa Di Fiori, a very high-spec restaurant. So clearly he's been on lots of dates before that haven't been successful – he's going to the most expensive place he can afford. With a blazer like that, he clearly doesn't splash the cash much. Anyway, when she offered to go to a hotel with him, he was far too desperate for it to notice the weird way she looks at him. Next thing you know, stabbed in the stomach, dead."

"Okay." Lestrade said, too tired and stressed for much more of a reply, "Anderson!" He called.

"Yes?" Anderson's head popped in the doorway, clearly annoyed.

"We're done here. It was the date- Don't ask." Lestrade cut him off.

"Come on, Sherlock, let's go to St Bart's."

I stepped through the automatic doors and inhaled the thick scent of antiseptic. I hate hospitals. I took off towards the stairs.

"Sherlock, where d'you think you're going?" Lestrade called after me.

"To see Molly." I called over my shoulder, pulling my coat's collar up and striding towards my destination.

"Stop right there." Lestrade called with a threatening tone of voice. That was unexpected. I stopped in surprise and turned to see him jogging over to me.

"Sherlock, I know this is really hard for you, but it's harder for John, so you need to put aside what _you _want and do what _John needs_, for once in your life."

I sighed, "Graham, I am not in the slightest bothered about John's appointment. In case you've forgotten, I'm a sociopath. So please don't let the fact that you had another argument with your wife over what to watch on TV last night, that apparently escalated further than it should have judging by your creased T-shirts that have been folded in an overnight bag, hinder my decision to go and see Molly."

He stood completely still for a second, tensed, before saying "It's Greg." And turning on his heel for to get in the lift.

Bloody sentiment. Can't they see that they bring it on themselves?

I pushed open the door and jogged down the stairs to the morgue. My phone buzzed in my pocket.

**Sherlock, I know you don't care about John, and no one expects you to, but please come. John needs you – MW**

Ah, so someone had given Mary my number. Great. Now I would be getting hourly updates on John. She's clearly trying reverse psychology, telling me not to care about John.

"Molly?" I called as I reached the morgue.

"Oh! Sher-Sherlock!" She replied timidly, appearing around the corner to welcome me through.

"Aren't you supposed to be with John?" She asked, looking into my eyes with concern for a millisecond before she nervously looked away.

I stared at her, not bothering with an answer.

"Um... So we've recently had a new one in. Male, fourty five years of age. Hung himself."

I fell into routine easily, preparing myself for the latest experiment.

"Scalpel." I held my hand out towards Molly, waiting. After a few seconds with no reply, I looked up.

Molly was looking at me, holding the scalpel tightly in her hand.

"Sherlock, I really think you should see John... Because it may not matter now, but if they find something, the time will come when it will take over his... Transport, as you call it. And when that happens, John won't be there to complain about your violin anymore, or to ask you questions about the obvious, or be your best friend anymore. And when that happens, you'll wish you could have spent every second with him. And you'll wish you could have been there with him when his final journey began. You'll have wanted to hold him while he cried, and have your hand on his shoulder while the Doctor explained the next step, and to give him your opinion when chemotherapy is discussed. And if you don't go right now, the guilt will fester in you, until it takes over your mind like John's cancer, and it will kill you too. This isn't just John's burden to bear. It's allowed to affect you, too." She finally looked away, and held out the scalpel. "That's just... What I think. You don't have to listen to me, I just-" Molly looked up when she heard the door slam shut.

She put the scalpel down, smiling sadly.

Sherlock's phone buzzed from across the room. Molly rushed over to pick it up so she could return it to him, but the text caught her eye as she did so.

**It's a brain tumour. Really bad. Doc wants to talk chemo. Please come. John won't stop crying -MW**

**So should I continue, or not? Please let me know, and tell me if you hate it or love it. I really want honest feedback. Thanks for reading.**


	3. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

**So, I've decided that I'm changing this a bit. John and Sherlock aren't really old anymore, they're about 40. I think that's easier to write. Please please please just take a second of your time to review because nobody has and it would really make my day if you could!**

**My medical knowledge isn't anything near good so please don't be annoyed if the details are wrong! Also, I thought I'd write an extra long chapter to make up for my silence :D**

**Currently listening to: Not About Angels by Birdy (anyone else here emotionally damaged by tfios?)**

**All rights go to the makers of BBC Sherlock, I own nothing!**

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(Sherlock's POV)

The lift's doors pinged open and I stepped onto floor 3, looking for the reception desk. Molly's words were still ringing in my ears. Something was stirring in me, a kind of aching in my chest that wasn't quite physical but still_ really_ hurt, and made me want to hunch over and hide from the world. But there was also a feeling rushing through me that pushed through the ache, that went straight into my muscles and kept me searching for the way to John. I identified this as sentiment, and the aching? Loss. John wasn't gone yet, maybe wouldn't be for another thirty or forty years, but the thought that he could be, and soon, meant my sentimental heart was prepping itself for the potential pain, readying itself for the intense emotions to come. Sentiment.

I'd only felt this once before, with Redbeard. A flashing vision of a bronze dog rushing towards me with his tongue lolling out his mouth came to me before I pushed it away.

Yes, sentiment. My worst enemy.

Spotting the desk, I marched forward with my usual accidental arrogance (or perhaps not so accidental) and asked where I could find a Dr John Watson.

"I'm afraid you've got the wrong hospital, sir. There's no Dr Watson working here." The greying lady said. Hospital staff are so unhelpful, so disinterested. She was already typing again, not having looked at me once.

"Not a Doctor, a _patient_. He's here for his results." I snapped back.

"Riiight." She sighed, annoyed at the fact that she had to do her job.

After a few more clicks on her computer, she told me it was wing B, room 221.

"221B, right." I repeated. When I realised the coincidence, I wished fervently that it was a sign of luck and not one of life's cruel jokes.

I began following signs for wing B and tried not to notice all the illness around me. So many wards for different illnesses, all crammed full of people. Once I found wing B, it was worse. Most of the rooms were private and not wards because when people with these illnesses reached hospital, their condition was too bad. I saw a few people walking the corridors in their pyjamas, pale white and with dark circles beneath their eyes. Hopelessness was tangible here.

The aching grew stronger until I thought it would overpower the sentiment and I almost turned back in favour of the flat. Thoughts of my books, experiments and my chair almost pulled me from the hospital, but the sight of 221B stamped on the door to my left expelled all those thoughts as though a tornado had swept through them.

I reached to open the door, of course not knocking, but my muscles froze. Every time I told myself to open the door, the ache took over my arm and locked it so that I could not open the door. I took my hand from the handle. What has gotten into me?

I stared at my feet. Reasons why I should go in:

John needs me.

Lestrade and Molly and Mary want me there.

The sentimental side of me wants to be here.

I want to know the verdict.

Reasons why I shouldn't:

I couldn't stand it if the ache in my chest became a rational reaction.

I am a coward.

Since the reasons for overpowered the reasons against, the only logical explanation was to go in. But for the first time in my reasonably long life, I considered that perhaps some things have more value than others and so could weigh as much as two of the other reasons. So maybe it wouldn't be so bad to go back to the flat and-

I felt someone's hand on my back. I whipped my head round to see Molly standing there, holding my phone out to me.

"You left it in the Morgue." She said timidly.

I stared at it. I never left my things behind. Never. Slowly, I took it from her.

"Thank you."

"I know you're scared, Sherlock. But you've made it this far..." She trailed off.

I nodded. I remembered the times when I was a child when I had played pirates with Redbeard. I had believed I was strong and brave, and conqueror of the seven seas (and the eighth I'd discovered on one of my adventures with Mycroft). When Redbeard had been taken to the vets to be put down, the only way I'd had enough courage to stand my his side as he was put to sleep was to tell myself I was on another adventure, and that I needed to be a strong and brave pirate for Redbeard, my first mate.

I never played pirates again after that. The game was no fun anymore; the game had become too real.

But I recalled, now, from the depths of my mind palace, the same surreal feeling of courage that had swam through me just because I'd wanted it to as a child. I put on a brave face, pulled up my posture and knocked firmly on the door.

At the time, I'd thought I was being brave, but looking back I realised my mistake. I never knock. I only knocked that day because I was too afraid to pull the door open myself.

"Come in?" Came Mary's voice. It sounded strained, as though whoever it was couldn't have picked a worse time to enter.

I slowly opened the door, taking in the scene before me and trying to deduce what had already been said.

My eyes immediately found John hunched over in his chair. The Doctor was sat at his desk and John had drawn a chair up opposite him. Lestrade and... Was that Harriet? Were sat by the door, behind the scene. Mary had her hand on John's shoulder, just as Molly had described to me. My heart twinged.

John wouldn't react like this without news; he was an army doctor, composed even in the worst situations. So this must have been worse than the worst case scenario.

Not much time left then.

"John, it's Sherlock, look." Mary tried to sound positive but failed miserably as her voice wavered.

John twisted around to look at me. It looked as though that simple action wiped the strength out of him. His face was pale and when he looked at me, his eyes were screaming. I'd never seen John like this – maybe I'd never seen anyone like this, because I didn't see the emotion on anyone else's face.

"It's bad. But you already know that." John said.

I nodded.

Molly coughed from behind me. "I'll just... Go back to the..." She closed the door before finishing. Saying 'morgue' felt too much like an omen. But the empty space it left felt worse.

"You came, then." Lestrade coughed up, trying to avert the awkward silence.

"Yes... Er, yep I..." My voice faded into the silence.

"Well, are you staying here for the rest?" The Doctor asked in an annoyed tone of voice. He probably thought I was an uncaring relative who couldn't get here on time. Before I could reply, though, John had already hurriedly told him that yes, I was staying.

And that made my decision for me. I was staying with John.

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**Thanks so much for reading, I hope you liked it. Please please please please tell me if you liked it because I'm only carrying on based on one person's follow, and I don't want to carry on writing if no one actually likes it. So even if you comment to tell me my grammar is horrible and the storyline is crappy and I can't write, please do! And again, thanks for reading!**


	4. Chapter 3

**Guys, I'm sorry this took so long! I'm in year eleven so the exams have started which leaves me little free time. I took a day off today to revise though, which gives me time to write this and a few other fanfics. Hope you like it!**

**ALL RIGHTS GO TO THE CREATORS OF SHERLOCK**

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Mary pushed the door to her and John's house open. I didn't really know what I was doing here, but John seemed to want me and it felt inappropriate to go home. She gestured me through.

John had already walked in ahead of me. He hadn't said a word since we left the hospital; he'd just sat in the car looking at the world pass by. He walked into the living room so I followed him there.

I sat on the couch opposite him. He was perched on the edge as though waiting for something to happen. But there was nothing to do or say. Mary came in and sat next to him.

"John?" She said softly. The only sound was of the clock ticking.

"What do you want for dinner?" She asked in a desperate attempt to stop the screaming silence.

"I fancy a curry." He said after a pause. Mary and I breathed a sigh of relief as the tension left the room.

"Do you want to stay Sherlock?" Mary asked.

"No I should probably get back soon. That case about the black button needs solving." I replied.

John stood up suddenly. "Great idea, Sherlock, shall we go now? We need to speak to that surfer don't we?"

I looked at Mary. This wasn't supposed to happen. Where was all the crying? I knew he was strong but...

"John... I don't think that's a good idea. You need to decide what you're going to do." I said awkwardly.

"About what?"

Had he lost his memory in the car ride? What is going on? "The chemotherapy, John." I said warily. Mary grimaced and turned away at the word.

John frowned at me. "But I don't have cancer."

"What do you mean? The Doctor just told you... He explained your choices and everything." I couldn't deduce anything about him other than that he was very tense, as though he wanted to leave. He was still stood in the middle of the room while Mary and I stayed sat.

"Oh! That's what you mean. No, he was wrong."

Mary stood up and took his hand after a long pause. John stared at her, and his expression begged her to carry on with the facade. So he knew this wasn't true. He knew he had cancer. Perhaps he was trying to just have one more case, one more fantastic chase before coming to terms with the fact that he was going to die. And that there would be no more chases.

Mary turned and looked at me. I nodded at her. We'd grant his wish.

"Okay. But be back by six for the curry. And do try not to get hurt." She said. This was routine now. She ran her hand over his cheek and kissed him quickly on the lips. But she stayed a bit too long, longer than usual. And I caught her expression as she turned to go to the kitchen. She was trying not to cry.

I stayed in character better than her. I stood up and stalked out of the house with my collar turned up, 'all cool with my cheekbones'.

I began walking down the street, not waiting for John, looking for a taxi. John quickly caught up.

"So where exactly are we going?"

"Like you said, we need to interview the surfer. Then I need to go back to the morgue. I don't need you there for that. Molly's date was cancelled."

I finally got a cab hailed, and we climbed into the back. I turned to look out my window, away from John as I usually did, going over the facts. But I couldn't focus now. I saw my mask slip in the window's reflection.

What is going on?

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The cab dropped John off outside his house at precisely six. I watched him climb out. He was very tired, you could see it in his movements and the bags beneath his eyes. I didn't tell him to enjoy his curry like the human side of me wanted to, I stubbornly remained in character and pretended to stare at my phone.

It had been as if nothing had happened – at one point in the day I'd actually believed the lie too.

The cab set off again.

I texted Lestrade, telling him that it was the brown haired musician.

After a few moments he texted back, but it wasn't about the case.

_Okay. I'll tell Donovan. How's John? Weren't you with him? –GL_

And then, with John missing, I came crashing down from the high of the case. Oh God. I would probably never go on another case with my army doctor, never have him right on my heels and asking stupid questions.

_He's in the denial phase. Won't believe it yet. –SH_

In the Kubler-Ross model, there are five stages of grief. It's supposed to be about people dealing with the loss of a loved one, but it has been known to occur in many other circumstances. This was one such a circumstance. It goes: denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. It seemed like a warning of what was to come.

"Excuse me?" I called through the glass separator.

"Yeah?"

"I'd like to go to 221B Baker Street instead, thanks." I told the cabbie.

"No problem, sir."

I just wasn't up to the morgue suddenly. A weird feeling washed over me, like a cold, heavy tide was washing over my body. It made my limbs feel thick and heavy, and made my eyes tickle. This is how depression, or deep sadness, is described. It is an immobiliser. Some emotions spur you into action, and others prevent it altogether.

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"Oh! Wait, Sherlock!" Called Mrs Hudson as I shut the door.

I sighed, shrugging off my coat.

"How is he?" She asked sadly. Mary must have told her.

"In denial at the moment. Just give him time." I told her sympathetically.

"You've changed..." She said slowly.

It was true. John's impending death had changed me completely. I was no longer a sociopath, that wall had been beaten down by the intense emotions I was feeling.

"It's never going to be the same again, is it?" I asked sadly.

"Oh Sherlock!" She exclaimed sadly, and enveloped me in a hug.

But that was a bit too much for me just now.

"I haven't quite changed that much, Mrs Hudson." I said, pulling away from her touch.

She laughed and walked back into her flat.

I trudged up the stairs and continued my experiment, but I just couldn't make myself feel quite right. And I suppose that's simply because nothing _was _right.

Everything had gone wrong.

So I climbed into bed, fully dressed, and tried not to cry. Soon enough, the immobilising tide washed completely over me and I dropped off into oblivion.

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**I don't really like this chapter, but I need to update so this will have to do. Sorry guys!**


	5. Chapter 4

**Hey, my exams are done for a week! Woo! So here comes the next update, I'm hoping it'll be a bit feels-y. Hope you enjoy. Please review, I would really like to have some criticism!**

**All rights go to the creators of Sherlock!**

**Enjoy-**

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A loud slam interrupted my deep sleep. What now?

I rolled out of bed and grabbed the crow bar from underneath it, crouching just below the mattress. When you have this many cases to worry about, you kind of expect things like this to happen. Much like that time during what John called 'The Blind Banker' case, where I had to beat up a martial artist before John got back from shopping. It still amazes me how unobservant that man can be.

There was no more noise in the flat. Perhaps I'd imagined it. Best to check anyway.

I stood up and walked cautiously to the door with the crow bar held at the ready.

"Sherlock?" Someone called, and it made me jump out of my skin. I whacked the wall with the crow bar in my fear. Nice one, Sherlock. The voice wasn't one I'd heard before, but it didn't sound very threatening.

I opened the door slowly. It didn't creak; I made sure to oil the hinges frequently to prevent such a thing. And there, stood staring down at John's chair, was a crippled man. His face was pale, he looked like he smoked a thousand cigarettes a day, although my mind provided me with the information that he'd never smoked in his life, so it was caused by stress. He seemed very weak, perhaps linked to the stress. My mind was firing off deductions, lightening fast. I'd only ever been this quick when I'd first met John.

Used to be in the army, however has since been a doctor. Has a wife, happily married. Presence of stress indicates some sort of illness.

Oh.

John Watson was the man stood in front of his chair.

He was unrecognisable in his sadness.

"John?" I breathed, truly heartbroken to see the state of him.

"Oh! Sherlock! I didn't see you there. Were you asleep? I didn't think you'd be asleep; you never slept when I lived here. Sorry to wake you up. Do you have any tea?" The man rushed the words out so fast he almost couldn't get them out. Another sign of stress.

"Er... Tea, yes?"

"Yes please."

I set about making it, despite the fact that I'd never really made tea for myself before. I couldn't think of a single thing to say.

"So what brings you here?" I said at the same time as John said "So who was it then?" Obviously referring to my case.

"It was the brown haired musician. I've told Lestrade." I said after making sure he wasn't going to talk over me again, "So how come you're here?" I asked again.

"Oh, you know... Couldn't sleep."

I nodded. I could definitely sympathise with that. The kettle finished boiling and I set about pouring the tea in.

"Does Mary know you're here?" I asked.

"No, no I... I didn't want to worry her." He sat down in his chair as I brought the tea over.

After a few minutes of sipping, John seemed to get to the crux of why he was here; "Sherlock... Do you ever wonder why you're alive?"

"The idea that creatures on a planet have a specific reason for being on that planet seems ridiculous and big-headed to me." I said automatically.

John nodded as though he expected my answer, "I knew you'd say something like that. I don't know why I came really." He said the last part sadly, sounding like he did when he called my name and I hadn't recognised him.

"I suppose, however, that if you asked the Me that has recently found the ability to care, I would have another opinion. I would say that yes, I do wonder why we're alive. I also wonder why we die, and what happens then. I would say that the reason people try to exert their power over people and things in _this_ life is because they know they can never control their death, and fear helplessness in the afterlife, if unconsciously so. I would say that you, John Watson, should not fear oblivion because if anyone deserves a peaceful Rest, it is you, and anyone not willing to give it to you should seriously reconsider their own ideas about life. I would say that you shouldn't be afraid of death, John, because it happens to us all, and when it comes, you will be ready. I just wish I could join you on the single most fascinating case we would ever face, and I ask that maybe you could send me back the notes through your blog. I would say we are alive simply because it is nice to be so, and I believe the object of life is to find happiness, and to make the best of it. And then, once that's done, to have a nice long Rest."

"I'm not really enjoying being alive right at the moment. Does that make me useless?"

"No, John, it means you're winning. You're ahead of everyone else because you are the one who can actually work towards the outcome, and it will make you happier than anyone else who has lived a perfect life."

"Do you fear that people will forget about you?"

"Yes, John. Everyone fears that the world will just keep turning when they're gone because everyone fears being ignored. But trust me when I say that I will never forget my blogger, and I will see you in everything I do, much like I already do now that you've left the flat. I could never forget about you. You are the single most courageous, loving, nurturing, patient and wholly _necessary_ person I have ever met. And I don't know how the world will keep spinning without you."

John just nodded. "Sherlock, I think... I think I might cry." He said quietly, brokenly.

I stood up and patted his shoulder, unsure what to do in the face of emotion.

"Do you want Mrs Hudson?"

"No, William Sherlock Scott Holmes, I need you. _Because you are my best friend_. When you get married, your wife is supposed to become number one, but I just can't replace you. I could never replace you when I thought you'd died. So just... Be here." His voice had grown more shaky throughout his sentences, until his voice had broken at the end.

I was reminded of earlier this morning when I wasn't going to go to his appointment, and my heart twinged with guilt.

"I'll never go, John." I said softly, feeling something prickling in my eyes, "Come here."

I took John's weak form in my arms, acting solely on instinct and not practise. He cried into my shoulder, and it was incredibly uncomfortable, but for some reason I couldn't make myself pull away. I felt this over powering need to help, above all else.

0o0o0o0o0o0o

And so John Watson cried into the night. At one point, he whispered "Why did it have to be me?" And Sherlock Holmes agreed so much with what had been whispered that a small tear of appreciation fell down his cheek.

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**I think this chapter's a bit random, I don't know. Let me know how I can improve? Maybe give me a follow? Thanks for reading!**


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